#LOVE that characterisation 🤗 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

houseofhyde · 1 year

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Hello there amazing writer 🙋🏻‍♀️! I hope you are feeling well and are finding the fandom pleasant 🤗.

I thought I'd share an idea that's been festering in my head if you'd like to give it a try (but first allow me to commend your sharply pellucid guidelines for requesting, you have seriously inspired me to refine my own 🥂)

I was thinking of something where Daemon has been chasing a noblewoman, interest kindled by her prideful rejection to become his latest muse; then one night she goes to his chamber, dejected and teary, indignantly asking for company. Then something like the beach scene from Drfitmark where he's far gentler than he thought he would be.

Thank you for hearing me out, have a lovely day 💐

but only for tonight.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader. synopsis. to most, the rogue prince is an untamable beast, with the fury of a thousand men and mind more stubborn than a mule. to you, he's a nuisance in expensive clothing, prone to run away with his tail tucked between his legs each time you reassure him you're still not interested in entertaining his company. till disaster strikes and the only corner of the keep your legs seem to carry you is his chamber doors. warnings. young!daemon (early 20s), enemies to lovers to strangers, kinda softer than usual daemon (he's young and not completely cynical yet), smut (porn with plot, p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, daemon lowkey has a praise kink, dubcon bc daemon is high on life aka the milk of the poppy). word count. 13.1k (this was only meant to be 5k max 🧍‍♂️) hyde's input. thank you so much to @nyctophilic0vitnir for your kind words, your request, and, most importantly, your patience <3 this took me far too long to write and i hope the wait was worth it for you. it pains me to age daemon down (as, personally, i'm a toxic bitch that loves to see daemon be notably older than the reader, since i feel it adds that extra layer of questionable morality to his character and his actions) but it was the only way i felt i could stay true to my personal characterisation of him whilst sticking to the original request. since i view daemon as someone hardened by things in life that only come with age (which, in turn, affects his approach to love/courting), it only felt believable to me that he'd chase after someone in his younger days. obviously not everyone has to agree since, again, this is my personal characterisation of him! i'm rambling so i'll shut up now, enjoy! read on ao3 !

between the blinding shine of the sun and the hateful looks from the ladies seated all around you, you’re shocked to the core that you’ve yet to melt away into nothingness.

the scene is as follows: an arena surrounded by crowds filled with cheering lords and fawning ladies, dressed in their finest of robes and garbs, and with their mouths opened to yell out each time sticks collide or a rider is thrown from his horse; within the arena stand two horses- one so white it offends the eyes and the other blacker than a night’s sky- and, upon their saddles, two men. the first is a man of honour, regal of house and true of heart. he sits like royalty and smiles like a dashing knight, urging his mount towards the stands, no doubt awaiting the gift of the flowered wreath you’d kept yourself awake into the small hours to make. the other man? a fool made of over-the-top armor, a glistening of dark metals and a feathered helmet that, combined with the smug look he sports, has the same effect as simply writing cunt across his forehead.

it is, to your own displeasure, that the second man is who holds his lance out to you first.

“well,” that cocky tone of voice grates you, like the screech of a crying babe, and you fight back the urge to cover your ears, if only by reminding yourself of how his crown-bearing brother is watching from his own seat amongst the crowd. “get on with it.”

“oh, my!” the women in your vicinity swoon, as if the man has just recited a poem of utmost beauty and grace in your direction.

seemingly foolish? most definitely.

but, truly foolish? not one bit, each of them strategic in their behaviour towards the unwed prince, hopeful that someday, should they work hard enough, they’ll be on the receiving end both of his affection and wealth.

you can not mock them- wholeheartedly, at least- for you would be behaving the very same were he any other prince.

“lady cantebury, if you’ll excuse me, i suddenly feel my lunch coming back up.” though you address the woman to the left of you- who, quite frankly, you’ve been ignoring for the better half of the tournament- your words and feigned smile are directed to the man of your ire.

“yes, excuse her, lady cantebitchy,” despite the prince- purposefully, you assume- misspeaking her name, she seems a little too excited that he’s taken notice of her to care. “it takes those northerners a while to adjust to eating something other than half-frozen crops. three moons south and my lady has yet to get used to it.”

“your lady?” you scoff, and quickly scowl, cursing yourself for giving him what he wants: your attention. too late now, you challenge him and lean forward against the railings. “is she with us now, this lady of yours? i should like to pay my respects to her no-doubt deceased sanity.”

“it pains me deeply when you speak so dully of yourself, my lady.” the gaul of this man! to speak such words, to mimic affectionate sentiments and pains in his heart through the clutching of his chest!

and, to make matters worse, to put on this act before the very man you’ve been courting!

the tyrell boy is smiling when your eyes finds his own, but the grip he has on the reigns of the white horse speaks true to the anger that hides beneath the petal-covered surface. you return his smile, and ignore whatever the prince mutters under his breath (something adjacent to greeting that priss of a man, with words more foul and tone heavy on the disgust).

aiming to beckon over the man who should truly receive the gift of your favour, a faint tug on the skirts of your summer’s gown derail your line of thoughts. first, you look to your left, accusing eyes looking upon lady canteburry as if to say she was the one to call for your attention. another tug has your head darting to the right, and there you see her.

the princess is small, in age and height and all else, but she makes up for what she lacks with her overgrown personality and swollen confidence. she’s merely a girl of six, yet she stands as tall as her stature allows, head tilted up to look you in the eye.

“my uncle,” little rhaenyra’s words echo for all to hear, silencing even the most brutishly rude lords as all stand to listen to her sweet voice. “he wants your favour. i think he’s just nervous and forgot to ask for it.”

the last of her words are whispered, loud enough for several women and the prince himself to hear. you shoot him a look as you both scoff over a laugh, him with indiganance and you with disbelief.

blessed be the hearts of children, too pure to know the wrongs of man.

“is that so, princess?” the girl’s nose wrinkles, a sign of her distaste towards hearing you address her by title (“i can not call you ‘nyra in public, sweet child.” you’d told her many a times, hands brushing over her pale hair or accompanying her through strolls in the gardens or helping her escape the boring hours of needle work. “you are a princess, and as one of your ladies it is my duty to address you as such.”)

the girl nods and you spy the way her hair is slowly slipping out of its braid. the actions serves as a reminder, to not just yourself but the gathered crowd of women, of the unfair yet captivating traits of the dragon-riders. fair hair, lilac eyes, unblemished skin.

he wears them differently to the rest of his house.

“listen to the child,” he speaks as if on queue, in tune with your thoughts. “she’s wiser than most her age.”

“unlike you.” you believe yourself to mutter beneath your breath.

the stifled laughter of the queen herself, aemma targaryen, tells you otherwise.

“ao jorrāelagon naejot sagon tolī sȳz, kepus!” you need to be more kind, uncle! another part of the targaryen culture you’ve grown to envy as much as you distaste: their ancestral tongue. which the princess has been improving upon with each passing day since your arrival at the capital, adding yet another person to your list of targaryens who insist on speaking it around you, with no regard to the fact you have no clue of what words they speak. if anything, the prince seems to enjoy it when you storm off, antagonised to the point of despair by his incomprehensible ramblings in his mother tongue. “iā hembar jēda kesan daor tepagon se dohaeragon ao jaelagon naejot gain se riña’s prūmia lēda.” or next time i will not give the help you wish to gain the lady’s heart with.

whatever she says, it’s enough to irritate the prince, if the roll of his eyes are anything go by.

“lykemagon, riña, iā kesan daor nārhēdegon naejot ȳdragon hen aōha bantis zaldrīzes kipagon naejot aōha kepa.” silence, child, or i will not forget to speak of your nightly dragon rides to your father. you may not speak the language, but you’re fluent in context, and so there’s no doubt in your mind that the two are exchanging threats, each wearing that signature look of stubborn challenging you’re more than certain the king grew to despise the moment he realised he’d no longer just face it from his own brother, but his precious daughter too.

when the moment passes, the princess is facing you again, sticky hands plucking upwards to grab onto whatever part of you she can reach and guide you- shove you, if she were stronger than her age allows- closer to the knight in offensive armour.

“uncle, tell the lady what you desire.” the gods were cruel when they chose to favour men over women, tearing away the chance of this poised young girl of ever ruling upon the iron throne, for not even the strongest of men- nor the most foolish, either- would dare to speak to the rogue prince in such a demanding tone.

“to be drowning in whores and wine.” you’re too slow to cover rhaenyra’s ears from the man’s offensive wording.

you suppose she’s heard far worse.

“uncle!”

“fine, fine,” a clearing of a throat, a straightening of a spine and a lunge of a jousting stick in your direction. the horse he sits upon canters a few steps closer and releases the heavy sigh you wish you could. “my lady,” there’s a point to be made with how your eyes drift anywhere but his own as he speaks such blasphemy, a silent scream that you are most definitely, not under any circumstances nor at any point in time, his lady. you’re barely a tolerant of the man! “would you do me the honour of gifting me with your favour, so that i may wear it on the handle of my lance as i shove the other end up this pretty boy’s arse?”

there’s a cacophony of laughter, prompted only after the king himself fails to contain a burst of belly-born rumbles, and then the sweet interjection of ‘nyra once more, voice whiny in a way that reminds you you’ve been cursed with your moonsblood for longer than she’s been alive- even despite your supposed late blossoming!

“kepus! konir sagon daor skorkydoso īlon kȳvanon syt ao epagon zirȳla!” uncle! that is not how we planned for you to ask her!

the prince ignores his niece, eyes spying only upon you and your unimpressed, unmoving, unchanging facial expressions. the frowning lips, the pinched brows, the disdain in your eyes are all marks of something that would- should- send any other man running for the hills, in pursuit of some other lady.

in daemon, it is the pilar of his desire.

“are you going to make me wait all evening?” the teasing smirk and the raise of an eyebrow have become the prince’s signature look around you, from the moment you’d stumbled upon him, hands tangled up the skirts of a serving girl and lips stained in the bloodied red of southern wine. “because i must admit, while i’m not against performing in front of a crowd, i’d rather hoped our first evening together would be a little more intimate than this.”

you bite the insides of your cheek with a force you hope is strong enough to rid you of that grating feeling roused by none other than your greatest enemy: the prince.

by all means, you want to deny him, send him off to pester some other lady for her favour- of which you’re sure he’ll stumble upon an abudance of them who receive him more willingly than you. the crown of pointed thorns and decaying petals and twisted vines is one you’d intended to gift to the rose boy, not the dragon prince.

yet rhaenyra’s little hands and excited smile convinces you to go against your better judgement.

the crowd bursts back to life with cheers and applause as you drop your wreath down the expanse of his lance.

“cherish it, prince daemon,” you call over the crowd, voice drowning out in the masses yet reaching its intended, daemon’s eyes delighting with the attention you give him. “for i just forfeited my chance to be named queen of love and beauty.”

hours later, when the moon sits atop the sky and the king’s guests have had their fair share of feast and drink, you brush off yet another congratulations.

“to our queen of love and beauty!” they cheer, cups to the sky and smiles made of mockery. “our prince sure did pick a fine lady.”

to roll your eyes is your only hope to halt yourselves from chastising the garish men and their claims, a whole rant to throw at them off the cuff of how the only thing their prince has done is place a scarlet letter upon you and slice a dagger through the already fragile relationship you’ve spent your recent days crafting with the stone-faced lady tyrell, who’s spent the past hours staring you down from across the hall and whispering every so often to her husband.

the hand in your own- smaller and distinctly sticky in a way only a child’s hand ever seems to be- tugs and squeezes you along, venturing deeper into the pit of dancing bods, the tuffs of blonde and the poofs of red the only part of the princess you manage to make out as she guides you.

she stops, eventually, when she finds a spot she deems spacious enough and- unbeknownst to you- in the perfect line of view for all that sit the royal table, be they a king, or a queen, or a prince, to witness you both joining in dance, a unique pair among the many couples.

“you know,” the girl ponders alloud, a cheeky grin on her face as her small frame easily twirls beneath your raised arm. “if you married my uncle, you and i would be family.”

“is that so, huh?” she must count her blessings that she remains a child, for were she any older to know better, she’d be tasting the wrath delivered upon any other who’d dare insinuate- much less so boldly propose the idea of- the unification of yourself and the rogue prince. “are you sure you’d be able to handle me as your evil aunt?”

the young girl nods enthusiastically, a silly grin decorating her features and forcing one on to your own down-trodden face, something so infectious in her smile.

when you’d first met the princess, you’d been certain that you’d never warm to her. it wasn’t that she was spoiled or particularly difficult but, rather, you’d never had a child around back home. moving to the capital- under the guise of becoming a lady in waiting to the little princess while truly being an excuse for your father to find you a husband- you’d been unsure what to expect once you arrived. your friendship with the dragon princess was a happy accident.

an accident that’s made adjusting to the capital far easier, sure, but an accident nonetheless.

“uncle!” her recent interest in your courting life and the need to intertwine it with your arch-nemesis’, however, has you rethinking this friendship.

the princess is the one to let go first, ducking out of your hold to crash straight into the prince’s leg, attaching herself onto it like a leech sticks to the skin of a dying man. daemon, seemingly engaged in conversation- with a girl you believe to be part of the lannister house- prior to the appearance of rhaenyra, dismisses the company in favour of his niece, hand clasping itself upon the top of her head and giving several scuffs, messing her hair till it stands in all directions.

and, be it the copious drinks or the immature she-devil who harbours within the depths of your soul, you condemn yourself to approaching the prince.

“stop that!” the words are a hiss as your hands shove away his own and work at smoothing back down the strands of pale blonde. “it took me near an hour to get her to sit still for me while i done her hair, and now you’ve gone and messed my work!”

“then do better next time, perhaps tie it more securely.” never has daemon targaryen had a face so worthy of a slap.

but, as slapping the king’s brother would likely land you straight in a cellar, you settle for something far more childish.

“oh, my bad,” the stretch to reach the top of his head is lessened by the heeled shoes you wear, allowing you to retaliate the treatment he’d given to the princess’ head. “perhaps you should try tying your hair more securely next time!”

it’s a marvellous kind of satisfaction that overcomes you as you gaze upon your masterpiece, the prince now wearing a hardened expression and standing with something akin to a bird’s nest in place of his once perfectly groomed locks.

“i think you’ve been spending too much time with rhaenyra,” he grumbles, attempting to sooth down the mop on his head while trying to maintain an air of collectedness about him as the surrounding guests hide their snickers behind their hands. meanwhile, the princess radiates joy, no fear holding her back from laughing at her uncle. “you’re behaving as if you were her age.”

it’s a struggle to not stick your tongue out, but you fear that would only serve to prove his- likely true- point.

“i’m tired,” rhaenyra, ever the conniving little actress, throws in a fake yawn and stretches her little limbs out as she untangles herself from the prince, staring up at him. the two have always shared a rather queer bond, as though they were cut from the very same cloth, little needing said for them both to understand one another. being aware of this, however, does not make it any easier to accept when they speak of you as though you’re not there. “would you promise to keep my friend company? there’s a lot of strangers at this feast and i don’t want one of them to harm her.”

“i’d say the strangers are the ones who need protecting, princess,” he’s doubled over, moving down to the height of his niece but his focus is all on you and the urge to squirm under his penatrive gaze is stronger than ever. “them northerners can be savages!”

with much protest from you and a shooing motion from the rogue prince, young rhaenyra scurries off towards her septa, eventually leaving the hall intwined with the daughter of her father’s hand, alicent hightower, the pair having been near inseparable since before you’d even arrived in the capital.

you last only four denied dances, three of them which are proposed by the heartbreak prince himself, the only other man bold enough to approach you with your frowning sworn-guard for the night being a lowly lord from the southern isles, kind enough in the eyes yet sporting a few too many wrinkles and grey hairs for you to consider a suitable suitor. and, at last, it becomes time you take your leave, making one last stop before the two royals, once more congratulating the pair on the early stages of the queen’s pregnancy- the first to make it through the initial trimester since the birth of rhaenyra and the sole reason you’ve all gathered, to celebrate the future heir king viserys targaryen claims grows within his wife’s womb- before making your way out into the much quieter, more solitary and notably cooler hallways of the red keep, the noise of the continued festivities drowning out into muffled cheers as the heavy doors slam shut, locking you out.

you breathe easily for what feels like the first time in hours.

ever the fool, daemon seems either incapable of taking a hint or wilfully going to any length to aggravate you, for he matches your steps and follows you out. he’s oblivious to the stare of despair and the roll of your eyes, wishing the man would drop his literal- and figurative- pursuit of you once and for all.

“you’ve been here, what, near four moons?” his voice rising above the stillness of the night captures your attention, widened eyes blossoming with surprise shooting up from facing the ground beneath your feet. “how are you finding your stay? i should hope my brother’s fitted you with comfortable quarters.”

“i, well,” you start, and you mean to finish, you really do. but there’s a loss of connection between your mind and your mouth, one running with a thousand thoughts that fight to reach the forefront and the other parting it’s lips in a broken exhale.

“what, surprised to see i am capable of niceties?” the prince flashes what you imagine most would describe as a charming smile.

“yes. no, actually,” you correct both your words and your posture, unknowingly relaxing that tense feeling that had danced upon the tip of your back and the expanse of your shoulder from the moment you’d found yourself alone with the man walking at your side. “more surprised to see you’re capable of not turning everything into a sexual pass, i suppose.”

“well, you never let me reach the part where i request to see just how comfortable your quarters are.”

that same she-devil who convinced you to mess with his hair perks up her voice once more, seductive whispers encouraging you to cross the space that separates you from the prince and place a hand upon his leather-bound chest, shoving him with less hostility either of you had expected.

“you’re insufferable!” at the very least, you retain the ability to criticise him verbally, though with far more interruptions of failed-to-conceal laughter and less sharpness in your tone.

“i believe it’s pronounced irrefutable.”

“i’m impressed,” you nod along to your own exclamation, vaguely aware of the fact you’ve twisted your feet around till you face the man completely. “that’s a big word for someone with the vocabulary of a foul-mouthed child!”

“if big things impress you, rest assured i’m well endowed.”

“like i said, insufferable!”

when your exacerbated sighs and his teasing chortles fade away into the air of the night, a calm quiet settles over you both, like fog over mountain tops. the rare abscense of the wandering eyes and judgemental snickers and the gossiping whispers exchanged through the courtiers has made way for an unexpected tolerance of the prince’s company, one that leads you astray from your usual disgust and further towards the walking disaster-child that is daemon targaryen.

“come,” it’s a demand, not a request, the talons of your hands digging into the arm of his coat admittedly harder than necessary, a sick depravation found in the firmness of his biceps. you find he gives no protest to the way your arm locks itself around his own. “walk me to my chambers, oh mighty knight!”

“is this your way of accepting my offer to see how comfortable your ch-”

“daemon, so help the seven, if you finish that sentence, it’ll be i who shoves a lance up your arse.”

silence returns like an old friend: with open arms and the promise of a story to be told.

the pair of you traverse through the winding halls of the castle together, arms linked and feet synced- the prince puts a great effort into shortening the length of his steps. to outsiders looking in, you’d almost appear to be nothing more than another couple in the early days of courtship, smiling off to the sides and capable of looking anywhere but each other. the reality that this very man has put your true intended betrothal at risk becomes buried deep beneath the surface of your thoughts, uneager to remind yourself of how you’d last seen the tyrell boy rising from the dirt of the arena, face frowning as the prince called out your name, thanking you for you favour.

“you never answered.” he speaks carefully, voice a gentle timbre as though he’s attempting to coax a wounded fawn out of its hiding place.

“hmm?”

“my question, about your stay. how are you finding it?”

you can not seem to answer him. it isn’t that you don’t want to answer- trust there is another world out there where you easily list off every reason he’s made your time in the capital feel something comparable to torturous and arduous work- but, rather, that you do not have an answer. because not a single person, from your own father all the way to little rhaenyra herself, has dared to ask you before.

no individual has cared to know, yet here the prince stands- walks by your side, more accurately said- and inquires on it.

it jars you so severely you feel the beginnings of an ache in your head.

“oh, well, it’s been... good, i suppose.” both of you share a common disbelief towards the words you speak, yours evident in the way your grip tightens around his arm and his making itself known in a dismissive grunt. “the keep is beautiful, and my chambers are beyond any level of comfort my own house could afford, and the weather is admiteddly nicer. it’s just...”

“lonely,” the man finishes what you started, the hand on his free arm at some point raising itself to rest upon your own. it’s only reflex for your fingers to relax, untense the vice grip you’ve dug into him. “this city is somehow the busiest yet loneliest place in the whole of westeros.”

“don’t get sentimental on me, prince daemon.” to dismiss the mellowness settling in between you with a jovial tone and a pointed look is all you can think to do, far too unprepared to be confronted with the possibility of the rogue prince possessing anything beyond the sheer audacity he displays on the daily. “we would not want someone to overhear and assume you’re soft-hearted.”

the man swallows back a comment of how, while his heart may falter, another of his organs would not fail to remain hardened, and simply gives a noise of agreement. you arrive at yet another flight of stairs, this one so narrow it requires you to walk ahead of the prince, the grasp you have on him never faltering as it slides down the expanse of his arm and reanchors itself on his wrist.

you make it not even a quarter of the way up before your dress proves itself to be a nusance, catching on your feet and sending you crashing forwards, saved from bruising your skin and breaking your bones on the solid stone below by daemon, who effortletsly catches you by the waist.

“i wasn’t aware the king placed you in the highest tower of the keep,” the prince, a known hypochondriac, quips on the amount of stairs the travels to your chambers entails.

“must be to keep scoundrels like his brother from trying to reach me.” a joke it may be, given you both laugh, but there’s certainly an element of truth behind it.

pray, you will, that you’re never enquired on how often a scoundrel has taken it upon himself to lift the ends of a woman’s dress for no reasons other than aiding her to climb up steps without the fear of her feet catching on the ends of it.

he follows you up closely, closer than he’d been before, and drops the material only after you’ve reached the top. the pair of you move in sync to reform your previous positions, arms intertwining with ease.

“what,” it’s criminal, you think, that it’s taken you all this time to experience how soft the prince’s voice can be once he’s rid it of all that ego and peacoking energy he barks around the courts with. meanwhile, he’s doing everything he can think of to slow your inevitable approach towards your chambers door. “do you have planned tomorrow morning?”

“tomorrow morning?” the question prompts you to look at him. seeing his face closer than it’s ever been before, you see the little details, like the flecks of deep purple that accentuate the lilac eyes, or the small scab on his chin where a shaving knife must have sliced it, or the subtle indent of frown-lines on his forehead that you think a man of his age is far too young to possess. “usually my mornings are spent with the other maidens who reside in the keep, before rhaenyra comes searching for me after she’s broken her fast.”

you don’t mention the way the young girl never fails to bring something tucked beneath her skirts- an apple, a buttered roll, a slice of meat- and forces it upon you, demanding you eat the breakfast you so often forget to take.

“how likely is it that your absence would be noted, say, if you were to go one daybreak not with those wenches?” you wrinkle your nose at the choice of words and he chuckles, mentally notting the distaste you harbour for wenches and reminding himself to use it against you at some point in the future. “my brother says the she-beast they call vhagar laid a clutch.”

“how ominous. haven’t you dragonriders taken enough dragons beneath your wings?” it’s meant to be naught more than a silly comment, a clever play on words to rouse a tired eyeroll from prince daemon. it isn’t, however, supposed to pull a pointed look and a sigh of defeat from the dragonless targaryen. “i’m sorry... i didn’t mean to offend.”

“no, no, it’s fine. just never speak such a stupid pun again.” he juts his arm out, playfully stabbing the point of his elbow into your side and rousing a smile back onto your face, unease slipping out with your next exhale. “it’s for the queen’s babe. my brother demanded i collect the eggs and bring them to-”

“there you are, my love! i’ve been looking for you all evening.”

like a pair of children caught with their hands down a cookie jar, daemon and you jump apart with haste, eyes no longer focused on one another and, instead, on the figure stood at the very end of the hall.

he still wears the armour which he’d been defeated by the prince in.

“laurel!” while your tone may read as elated, it’s filled only with disappointed surprise. “what are- why- what brings you here, at this hour?”

the prince seems to instinctively step closer to you as the tyrell boy begins to approach, leaving his post outside your door. he’s stern, brows furrowed and nothing remains of the man who’d been making you laugh a mere ten paces back.

“i was looking, for you,”

“clearly not hard enough.” you wonder if the tyrell boy catches daemon’s muttered words and, the part of you that agrees with them wishes he did.

you’d been at the feast all evening, with just about every other person of status in the city. if he’d wanted to find you, he’d have been best to make an appearance at the event rather than camping outside your apartments.

“i thought we could take a stroll through the gardens,” the rose speaks as though his idea is not preprostous, inviting a maiden out into the darkened greenery at such a late hour.

passing by the prince, laurel tyrell spares him no attention, as though the man is not even there, and simply makes his way towards the stairway, turning back only when the notion that you stand frozen in your spot kicks in.

“come along, my lady!” my lady. those two words feel tainted from hearing them fall from between the prince’s lips, the tyrell’s voice prickling your skin with it. “i promise i shant keep you late.”

your eyes find the prince.

he nods, once and then a second time.

“go,” he urges verbally, when his actions don’t speak loud enough. “fleabottom’s been calling my name all evening, and i intend to answer it.”

with a twist in your gut and a wretch in your heart, you shuffle your way over to laurel tyrell’s open palm, letting him drag you back down into the night.

this is a decision you come to regret, no later than four sleeps.

because the man's words follow you, no matter how quickly you run through halls and creep up stairwells. they turn every corner you take and pause with every rush of breath you stop to heave into your screaming lungs. you pass doorways and sleeping guards, and they pass them with you too.

this nonsense best prove it's worth once i bed her.

there's anger in the clutches of your hands, clenched into fists of pointed knuckles and skin-digging nails, and sadness caught between the lashes of your eye, drops of liquid heartbreak threatening to stain your skin if you so much as blink.

the halfwit doesn't notice when i focus on her tits instead of her eyes.

the poetic words, the strolls through the gardens, the nights of dancing, the stolen smiles and fleeting looks across crowded rooms, all for nothing.

least she be a maiden. i've heard the feel of breaking one of them in is unmatched.

all for laurel tyrell to be another man who sees only the shape of what you hide beneath your clothing.

you want to hate him, curse him, tell all you meet of his crude words, but, instead, the thought of their reactions leaves you despising yourself, for ever thinking a man could think with more than what sat between his legs.

it is not even an option to contact your father, you lament while climbing yet another winding stairwell, for he’d merely remind you of a woman’s duty, which serves only her house until she takes a husband and, then, serves only him.

if the tyrell boy wishes to bed a maiden, your father’s voice plays in your thoughts as though he were stood before you this very instant, best it be you.

his words, the thoughts and your footsteps all come to a halt at the same time. like reentering your body, or awakening from a nap, you find yourself disorientated, gazing upon a chamber door you register not as your own. no, this door is more akin to the level of gradiose you face each day that you visit the young princess’ room, dragged away by her small hands as she works to avoid yet another one of the classes that she views as a bore.

yet, this is not her door.

sure, it carries similar markings and engraves in the wood, and sports that very same rich colour and shine to it. but something, subtle as it may be, is askew. the princess’ door has silver handles, this one has gold. the princess sleeps in the east wing of this part of the keep and you’re certain you’d marched west, away from the voice of your betrothed. a guard stands by the princess’ door, no one sits outside this one.

bile rises in tune with your hand, staining the back of your throat with anxious thoughts as you hesitantly knock.

you pause and wait.

minutes pass before you’re knocking again, this time with a little more anger behind the way your knuckles hit against the cold oak. it’ll be a wonder if you do not awake to swirls of purple and twists of blue painted across your skin come sunrise.

the tenant of these apartments still does not open their doors.

you hit a little harder, replacing knocks with a forceful, full-handed slap against the door. and then another, and another, and another, and-

your hand meets flesh that prickles with stubble and points with it’s cheekbones.

“what in the seven hells merits such behaviour at this hour?!”

the prince, for the life of him, has barely managed to open his eyes fully, rejecting the bright lights that burn in the hall. behind him is a sea of black, whatever treasures or prisoners he hides within his quarters lost into the darkness. he’s frowning, hair a mess, clothes foregone hours ago, and a distinctly red hand print slowly searing itself into the left side of his face.

the sight brings you more relief than you’d ever thought him capable of.

you’ve always been rational. it’s a badge you wear with honour, basking in the glory anytime one of your siblings met the angrier side of your father that never failed to reprimand them for being less like you, for being incapable of thinking before acting like you, for never weighing consequences until after a deed was done.

till the day you die, you will never find the words to describe what leads you astray from this level-headedness in the small hours of this evening.

you crash into the prince less gracefully than you’d prefer, lips barely meeting the bottom of his and pressing themselves half on his chin as you dive in for a kiss.

a kiss that daemon does not reciprocate.

in fact, he doesn’t even attempt to move, body frozen in place. pulling back to find the sheer unfazed, almost bored look that occupies the features of his face, floods your soul with a horrible, thick, heavy feeling, that stains every part of you it touches.

you’re ashamed.

and mortified.

and disgusted.

and embarrassed.

and reaching for his lips again.

this time your mouths collide in perfect level, no unwanted chin in the way. wanting- needing something to anchor you down, your hands shoot out to grasp at where a tunic would usually be. instead, you’re met with nothing but the solid, heaving, sweating mass that makes up the prince’s naked chest.

daemon remains stoic.

“i,” you breathe a shaky exhale, a sting nagging away at your reopened eyes as the previous tears reappear. with a nod, and a sniffle, you step back from the man. the nervous tremble in your hands forces you to grab at the fabrics of your skirt, grasping at anything to distract your mind. “that- this was a mistake.”

this entails so much. kissing him, knocking on his door, walking to his chambers, moving to king’s landing, courting with the tyrell boy, letting the prince get in your head and, all over what? a single experience where the two of your were capable of coexisting without tearing one another’s hair out?

it is all one big mistake, the kind that one can’t hope to fix if all they do is turn and run from the danger it exudes.

knowing this won’t stop you from trying, however.

you twist so quick you worry you may snap your spine or strain a muscle, body kicking into action in an attempt to get as far away from the prince as you’d once desired to be from the tyrell boy. not even a full step, do you make it, until an unmovable force clamps down on your arm.

daemon imposes on you this time, leaning down and crashing his lips against yours. his mouth is warm, with lips of honey and hands of stone that grab and pull and tug at the parts of you they blindly reach for.

the prince is not the first man you’ve kissed- nor do you imagine a life where he’ll be the last- but there’s something behind the way his tongue burrows itself into your mouth, his presence so tangible and all consuming.

you pull back, if only to catch your breath, but he follows, taking ownership over your senses.

stumbling backwards and crossing the threshold into the prince’s chambers, darkness takes ahold of you both, bathing you in nothing but the light of a distant moon. you barely register how one of you reaches for the door behind you, only the slamming of it alerting you to the fact it’s been closed. a lightheaded feeling overcomes you, forcing you to pull apart when your lungs scream for air.

“i’m starting to understand,” daemon’s voice is full of rasp, dry and cracking and far too grating on the ears for you to genuinely be finding yourself attracted to it. “why my brother swears by the milk of the poppy.”

a horrible feeling floods your soul, bile burning its way up your throat.

“oh, oh my god,” your hands are at the level of your eyes, pulling at strands of your own hair. “i completely forgot... you- you’re on bedrest, i can, i’ll just leave-”

the prince’s injury had been the talk of the town since it had occurred: a near-deadly run in with a frightened stag amidst a hunting tourney. the horned animal had spooked his horse, throwing the man off its saddle as it reared and ran off, leaving him to face the male deer. the truth of what had entailed, few would ever know, all that was said was that the prince returned to camp dragging the slaughtered animal by it’s horns with a blood staining the clothing surrounding his left shoulder.

“no, you won’t, heathen!” in rare occasions, daemon would be the only one to pull a smile from you all day. how fortunate that this is one of those occasions, the scowl on his brows contradicting the subtle upward quirk of his thin lips. “you can not dangle a piece of meat before a dragon and then refuse to feed it.”

were you in any state to think rationally, you’d dig more into the fact he’d just referred to you as a piece of meat.

but, then, if you were thinking rationally, you’d never have wound up at his door.

the second kiss is less forceful. no rush enlaced with every touch, no desperation tickling at both your senses, no desire to stray too far from one another.

you find yourself trusting the prince more than you’d like to when he starts to guide you backwards, a gentle pressure on your hips building while his mouth travels over your jaw and reaches the top of your neck. you walk, and stumble, and shuffle wherever the man directs you and, then, you fall.

any frightful scream you would have let out is quickly replaced with a squeal and a giggle of delight, back meeting what you’re confident in naming the softest bed you’ve ever laid upon.

at last, the shine of the moon allows you to see the man hell-bent on attacking you with his mouth.

“what is the meaning of this, hmm?” the condescension in his tone usually grates you. now, it excites you, arouses you, leaves you wondering of what pleasures he could speak with it. “why’re you suddenly at my door, behaving like some wanton whore?”

oh, you think, who knew such crass could prickle your skin with desire?

the shadow of the prince casts down on you, bathing you in an exagirated enlarged image of him, as if the fates wish to remind you of how big a shadow he looms over your own existence. it scares you.

his eyes scare you more.

they’re usually wider, observing every move, full of that mischievous nature the prince is known for. but, if what people say is true and the eyes are the mirror to one’s soul, then daemon’s soul must be a dark pit made up of lustful glares and hooded eyelids, resting so low his eyes almost appear shut.

you want to answer, you really do. but between the hand that circles a grip around your throat and the heat shooting straight for your core, burning up in a puddle of arousal, you can’t. all you can do is watch the man before you, silver hair a beautiful mess just begging for some fingers to be ran through it and stare promising to ruin you in the best way possible.

the silence pleases him.

“do you know how hard it is to get you alone? always got someone wanting to talk to you, stealing your attention. do you even know how many stupid feasts i had to attend to finally get some time with you?” daemon pauses, like he’s waiting for you to relay an answer, guess a number. he loosens up the grip on your neck, teasing your skin with a few soothing strokes of his slender fingers, lulling you into a state bordering insanity. “no answer, sweet girl? or are you lost in that pretty little head of yours?”

“i’m,” your voice is but a whisper, raspy with a new found thirst. “trying to figure out what you want me to say.”

if it’s the wrong or right answer, you’re soon to find out, the sharp faced man releasing a dangerously low chuckle as he takes a hold of your chin. like a pretty doll, you move any time and any way his fingers command you to, finding yourself staring right up into his eyes, a swirl of melting jasmine that reminds you of how alluring yet sultry every inch of him is. lips near touching, he refuses to break eye contact as he speaks up once more, sealing both your fates when his breath hits your face.

“then let me show you what i want.”

his mouth comes down on yours like it’s the answer to all your prayers and, yet, all your nightmares.

it excites you how easily he works his lips over your own, captivating every inch of you when he tilts his head to the right and deepens the kiss. the rhythm of your lips is a mismatch of beats, where one moment you are moving in a sensual waltz, grazing tongues and dipping heads to get rid of that inch of a space remaining between your bodies, and the next moment your tongues are tangled in a tango, the kind where his teeth send blood rushing to your lips with every bite he drags over them and his hand drags shivers down your spine as it makes its way down, down, down your body.

yet it terrifies you how willingly you’ve succumb to daemon’s touch, intoxicated by whatever witchcraft he has in his possession and currently holds over you. there’s a deadliness to the way his lips part from your own only to repeat his previous seamless descent down your jaw and the expanse of your neck, a poisonous element to the way his hand suddenly finds itself clutching the meat of your thigh.

the moment his fingertips ruck up the fabric that safeguards the last of your modesty and meet the ends of your sleep-gown, you’re wishing you’d never slipped it on in the first place, every fibre of your being growing angsty under the weight of his suddenly halted hand. it stays still for an immeasurable amount of time, grazing over your near shear dress occasionally while he continues to mouth at your neck.

like visenya and vhagar at the unstormable vale, daemon parts your legs with little to no effort, creating a pathway for his fingers to travel further up your thigh. blunt fingernails drag up your skin, a trail of goosebumps being left behind, a visible marking of where he’s touching you.

his movements halt too soon for your liking, too much distance between his lithe fingers and your body’s pulsating core.

“have you figured out what i want yet?” his voice is a stark difference to the usual smite-filed, almost spat-out-words tone you’ve grown used to hearing from the man. right now, there’s no trace of sardonic undertones in the thick rasp and there’s no time for an exchange of childish insults while he’s glaring down at you through hooded eyes.

something compels you to nod your head, even though you’re a little too lost in the thoughts concerning what you desire, rather than what the stranger incarnate looming over you wants.

“you have?” the words come out in a layer of amazement, and you have to wonder if it’s because of the lie you’ve just told or the way your legs have closed in around his hand, trapping it between them. “i want to know what you want, though.”

you want his thumb to stop stroking over the flesh of your inner thigh.

you want his eyes to stop gazing down at you like you’re the perfect prey.

you want him to stop teetering your impending pleasure on a string.

you want-

“you.” is all you manage to breath out.

it seems to do the trick, however, your point getting very much across to him. a softness flickers over his features, brows no longer furrowed and smirk curling up into a full smile for what feels like an eternity, but is actually no more than a couple of seconds before his devilish aura is back.

lips meet lips again, the desperation and force behind each stroke of his tongue against yours the same as before. the prince, much to your delight, seems to grow just as impatient as you’ve been since the moment he’d stopped you from fleeing at his door.

one hand still resting between your thighs, his other seizes the opportunity to drag your body closer, till a mere inhale is enough to have your chest pressing into him.

the prince’s descent to the floor is graceful, his figure made of solid muscle and unclothed skin lowering till his knees hit the ground and it becomes you who stare down at him, your hands clutching at the silk sheets his bed has been dressed with in an effort to replace the desire to touch him instead.

choosing to not dwell on the heavy feeling of his eyes on you, or the sheer visual strength depicted in the straining muscles of his thighs, you instead focus on the way his lips have trailed away from yours and are beginning to make their way towards the top of your chest.

his hand abandons post between your thighs and rises to the surface, where long fingers begin to pull at the straps of your flimsy night-dress, successfully manoeuvring the cotton material till it pools around your midriff and your breasts are exposed to the damp air of the night.

with no want left to play around, he dives right in to dragging his lips down the upper swell of your left breast. you imagine he can feel the beating of your racing heart beneath the goosebump littered skin. it doesn’t take long for his tongue to enter the scene, skilfully flicking over your hardened nipple a couple times before enveloping his mouth around the bud.

one, two, three sucks and he’s moving on to your right breast. there’s no lead up, this time, simply his mouth finding delight in toying with your body while he busies his hand with your left side, thumb and pointer finger rolling and tugging and spreading the remnants of his saliva over your heated skin.

the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and has you arching your own, is the faintest pressure of his teeth biting down on you. it dances on a thin line between pleasurable and painful, exhilarating enough to make you throw your head back as a moan slips past your lips. it echoes in the empty room, replaying your own sound for both of you to hear again and again before the chain is broken by a laugh.

his laughter.

“why are,” he picks the right time to trail his fingers down your body, dragging your dress with them till it sits uncomfortably tight around the top of your hipbones, fabric digging into the rapidly heating skin. “you laughing?”

“has anyone ever told you how beautiful your tits are?” it’s crude and heartwarming all at once, not unlike the man who says it and the little smile he shoots up in your direction as he rolls his tongue over your nipple once again.

“no, i can’t say they have.” one hand finds it’s way onto his shoulder- the shoulder that does not possess gauze wrapped around it, that is- and grasps it in a vice grip, the fear of melting off the bed and directly onto the concrete floor all too prevalent as you gain enough confidence to let the other hand slide around to the back of his neck and thread your fingertips in the silver locks, hair as soft as you’ve always imagined it to be. “you’re the first.”

“i’ll wear that title with honour,” he seems to delight in the way you’re carding through his hair, eyes closing while he tilts his head back further into your touch. a delighted sigh follows. “has anyone ever asked to drink from your cunt?”

you nearly choke on your own shock.

“i suppose that’s another honourable title for me to wear.” daemon is beginning to give you whiplash, with all this switching between being unusually receptive to your presence and the man that minutes before was making poetic profanities out of the beauty of your bared chest. he peaks his eyes open again, slowly, adjusting once more to make out your figure in the darkness. when he has the nerves to smile at you, all dreamy eyed and relaxed sitting before you, knees pressing into the ground in a mockery of a bow, some crevice deep within your soul sparks up a fire that burns on the belief that perhaps you’ve been wrong about the prince all along, judging only on what people say and not on how he behaves. then, he reopens his mouth and dampens the flame. “now, do i have to tear you out of your skirts or will you stand up and let me slide it off?”

this time, its your laugh that echoes in the air.

“you think i jest!” he seems to whine his way through his exclaim, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly in a way you’re certain is both influenced by the milk of the poppy that flows through his bloodstream, and is going to drive you insane. “i can not go on another moment like this, you sitting there like something akin to the most mouthwatering summer’s peach, without spending my seed. and, while i’d much prefer to do so inches deep inside you, i’ll settle for a mouth full of cunt.”

“you’re so-” you give up on trying to find a single word to describe him, knowing there’s no word that can quite capture the prince’s essence. “okay, okay, i’ll umm... just stand up and-” the shriek of fabric tearing rips through the space between you. “hey!”

“i’d apologise but, well,” daemon’s dazed smile should not be this gentle, not when it is proceeded with his hands returning to your now bare thighs. “you were trying my patience.”

his hold on you is strong- both the grip he has on your legs and the control he harbours over your mind-, and he plays it to his advantage, laying one palm flat over your torso and forcing you backwards, till your back meets the mattress and your eyes find themselves staring up at the images carved into the roof of the wooden bedpost, details indistinguishable in the darkened room.

from the floor, the prince is grabbing and pulling and maneuvering you down the length of the mattress, finding the backs of your knees and bending them, spreading your legs to a width wide enough for his broad shoulders to sit between.

“need you closer, my tongue’s not that long.” the prince mutters, half to himself, as your arse meets the edge of the bed, all the way to where his wanton mouth awaits you. as if to give you a preview of what awaits you, the kisses from before reduced to nothing, his tongue pops out to run over the smooth of his bottom lip. your hands return to fisting at the sheets beneath you, digging and searching and reaching for a way to keep yourself grounded through the maddening thoughts of the prince and the current position you find yourself in, and ignoring the anxious ridden vipers inside your mind that spit their venom and hiss their tongues in commands that entail you gathering the remaining fabrics of your tattered clothing and running out these chambers, out the keep, out the damned capital, out the clutches of the man on his knees. though, with the way his fingers squeeze into your thigh, you doubt you’d make it as far as even a single step. “comfortable?”

“as i’ll ever be.”

“all the ladies in the seven kingdoms that would die to be in your position, and you choose to say that?” he tisks, tongue hitting off the roof of his mouth before a blow of air hits against your folds and, though it’s faint from the distance still between his mouth and where he wants it to be, it sends a jolt of excitement up your spine. “i’ll just have to make sure i over-perform, make you more eager for next time.”

neither of you choose to dwell on those words, next time.

him, too occupied with getting his first taste, tongue licking a strip up your core and coming to a stop as the tip of it bumps against your aching bud.

you, too busy having the air knocked out of your lungs, hand unconsciously finding safety in gripping his hair as you lurch upward momentarily, back arching off the bed and mouth falling open in a quiet gasp that echoes around and around.

“hmm, make sure you hold on tight.” you know he’s teasing you, with his words, and with his eyes, and with his mouth that seems to find enjoyment in trailing itself over your buzzing centre and up your pubic bone. “you smell sweet as sin, you know? enough to make any man go feral.”

the chance to reply never comes, not when the prince makes his way back down to your pearl and greets it with the stroke of his flattened tongue. every tiny nerve sparks to life under his touch and you feel yourself grow more sodden, a wave of warm arousal leaking out of your hole. his tongue dives down to welcome it, not allowing more than a single drop- which slips and slides its way down to the crack of your arse, dribbling over your puckered hole- to go to waste.

you don’t even notice the lack of his grip around your left leg until you feel it: the first few seconds of his fingertips probing around your soaked cunt, coating themselves in your liquid pleasure until it’s dripping down the back of his hand.

the first finger to enter your hole is gentle, tentative to the way your body receives him, his pointer and ring finger keeping your folds spread and allowing him the full view of the middle one slowly disappearing from sight, burying itself in the warmth of your womanhood. distracted, his mouth pulls back and his head forces itself into the grip you have in his hair while his eyes soak in the sight above him, flickering up to catch your reaction when another finger enters you, this time with a lot less care as it forces you open around it.

“so pretty,” he slurs over the words, more to himself than to you, delighting as he witnesses you struggling to bite back a pathetic moan when his digits curl within you. he repeats the action a couple times, flicking his wrist back and forth, fingers brushing over your tight walls each time and culminating in a curl that has him pressing against the spongy-like flesh inside. “so, so pretty.”

your hips begin to rut against his hand, meeting every one of his thrusts with perfect timing that has him reaching deeper, further, better places inside of you. all the while the prince is simply watching and admiring the furrow in your brow and the way the swells of your breast bounce in sync with you.

your cunt clenches tighter and his fingers fight to reach deeper before spreading themselves wider in an attempt to scissor you open. he’s giving it his all, a third finger slipping in despite the dull ache setting in his wrist while he coaxes you closer and closer to the tipping point.

the rogue prince takes just as easy as he gives, and it’s that fact alone that drives him to pull his hand back, fingers withdrawing from you and the pleasure you’re pursuing.

“why did you-” you heave through heavy breaths, brain fuzzy from the unvoiced peak you were so close to having, every nerve ready to tingle, every muscle ready to tremble, every toe ready to curl. “stop?”

“because,” the wet smack of his fingers hitting against your pearl is louder than the whimper that drops from your mouth. daemon hears both, however, and grins, quickly landing another smack against your engorged bud. “the goal is to make you cum on my tongue, not my fingers. consider them the appetiser, something to awaken your senses.”

his tongue licks in an upward motion, starting from the tip of your taint and ending at your pearl, and you get deja-vu to just minutes before, when you’d first felt his tongue on your melting skin, the saliva it leaves in a trail behind it serving to cool you down. a shiver runs up your spine as he blows air onto your cunt, the pressure of it doing wonders to stimulate your bundle of nerves.

“would you ever stop?” your whining tone is reminiscent of a spoiled babe, crying and fussing over the need to be fed milk from it’s mother’s teat.

“‘tis you who’s becoming insufferable now, my lady.” the prince, despite what he says, does as you ask and puts an end what feels like unending teasing- really, it’s hardly been a minute but the pulsing of your heat and the loss of a climax leave you no room to think about something as abstract as time.

his lips make a victorious return, wrapping themselves around your centre and sucking against the pulsing nub. every so often, he delivers a couple kitten licks- ups and downs, sides to sides, figure eights- before swiftly returning to kissing your most intimate parts.

in an attempt to make your toes curl, he dips lower and teases the tips of his tongue over your entrance, wet muscle moving over wet skin and tastebuds covering themselves in your essence, till the moans echoing off the walls are indistinguishable between daemon’s and your own.

“you can move.” he grunts into you after a few minutes of repeated alternating between kissing your pearl and tonguing at your hole. it’s muffled with the way he’s holding you down against his face and you feel his lips brush against your lower ones as he speaks. “need you to move. wanna see you use me, sweetling.”

and, really, who are you to deny a prince?

you’re hesitant at first, just like you were all those weeks ago as you watched the flowered wreath slip down his lance. you test the waters and give a single roll of your hips. it feels good, great, especially when paired with his own efforts at dragging his tongue over you.

it takes a few more attempts, and daemon’s patience wearing thin to the point he resorts to grabbing a firm hold of your arse cheeks and dropping your legs over his shoulders, mouth pressing right up against you with his tongue flat and eyes staring up at you in a demand to move, else all the old gods and the new be damned.

move you most certainly do, grinding down on his tongue like you’ve done many a time on the spare pillows that line your own bed, in the hours where the moon sits high within the sky and not a creature stirs nearby to witness your self-pleasing sins. it’s messy, sloppy in the way that his spit mingles with your wetness, a cocktail of fluids sliding down his throat, and painting his lips, and dribbling down his chin as he eats you like a man starved that’s getting a taste of the sweetest fruit.

the rhythm of your hips is thrown off when the man below you switches from having you grinding down onto his flattened tongue to slipping the muscle inside of your hole, thrusting it as far as up as the length of it allows him to. with every time your body comes crashing down on his mouth, the tip of his nose bumps against your clit, forcing you to angle yourself upwards to gain more of the friction.

hands find hair, lips part in unabashed moans, thighs shake with the oncoming of an orgasmic state of mind.

the moment builds too quickly, too unexpectedly, like the ghost of your stolen climax is back with a vengeance and set on ensuring there will be no denying it this time.

“s-shit,” your eyes squeeze shut, too scared to look down at his ecstasy filled eyes in fear of it being what finally tips you over the edge. “oh, there, right there, daemon! yes, i’m going to-.”

the prince pays no mind to your warning. if anything, he takes it as a challenge, an invisible timer beginning in his head and forcing him to see how quickly he can get you to unravel all over his mouth. he’s getting everything he’s imagined since he’d watched you first step foot into the keep, your naked body a mess before him as you fuck yourself on his tongue and your hands, with minds of their own, sliding up to grab and squeeze at your breast.

he watches how the white tips of your nails clash with the darkened colour of your abused nipples, fingers working to pinch, and twist, and pull at them as you lose yourself in the moment.

when you peak, it’s with rolled-back eyes and shaky thighs, his hands gripping at you tighter to steady you as you fidget and kick away from him, his tongue working at coaxing you through your high.

he licks up every drop of your essence he can manage, until you’re cringing in overstimulation and reaching down to push him away. he lets you move him, mouth switching to trail a couple kisses over your inner thigh, something similar to lipstick stains- yet so much dirtier in nature- being left behind on your soft flesh.

“you sound as though you enjoyed yourself.” he’s the first to speak, partly because he correctly thinks you’re incapable of forming anything coherent in the afterglow of your orgasm, mouth agape as you drag and drop the air through your lungs, but mostly because he wants- no, needs to hear you praise him.

“do you ever...” despite your efforts to sit yourself up, against his sheets you remain with limbs melted into puddles jelly and eyes staring wide at the heavens above, a tremble still present in your thighs as you subconsciously feel the patterns his hands dance over them. “shut up?”

“only when my mouth is otherwise occupied.”

silence prevails alongside the ticking of time. some part of you registers the return of your feet to the cold floor and the departure of the man from between your legs. he doesn’t stray far, hands clamping down on your hips, a gentle squeeze or two his own way of searching for your presence, urging your eyes to meet his.

they remain looking upwards.

undeterred, the prince is, bending himself at the waist and resting both hands on either side of your head, holding his own weight up as his face obstructs your view above. life enters you once more, eyes focusing at last on him and his upturned mouth and the remnants of your sexual indiscretions drying into his skin.

“for someone who hates it so much, you sure do know how to stroke my ego.” he must be on a mission, you think, to remind you of why you’ve spent your days avoiding interactions with him instead of tangling yourself within his arms. “i’ve got something much bigger for you to stroke though, once you regain your senses.”

this something bumps against your skin, solid as a rock and spluttering a spit of fluids onto you, warm and sticky. sneaking a quick glance is not enough to fully encapsulate the details that make up this fierce looking appendage, with it’s red-angered tip and its decorative bush of hair and the peak of his stones that sit just past its base, yet it’s all you allow yourself under the scrutiny of his eyes.

“perhaps it’s time you to choose your words more wisely, prince daemon,” your voice is breathy, chest heavy still. you try distract him away from noticing such a feat, hand dancing down the expanse of his bare back till it meets the globe of his arse, nail digging in so deep they’re bound to leave marks, if not draw blood too. “it would be far too easy to punch you in the cock from this position.”

he swallows back a demand for you to speak more about his cock.

clarity bestows itself upon your mind, as your memory serves you a cruel reminder of the words you’d overheard and the voice you’d been running from, dread burning its way up your throat in a sickening twist of guts. the prince must notice the shift in the air, perhaps the way your face has grown a little paler or your pupils dilate as you venture off into the hellscape of your mind, for he’s quick to return you to his hold, heavy body pressing down on you as the prince’s mouth meets yours.

there’s a tangy, sticky sweetness to his kiss, a taste of your self that he gifts you with bitten lips and languid tongue, delving deep into your mouth as if in search of some hidden treasure.

it’s clear now, to the both of you, that your reasons for being here- in his chambers, upon his bed, beneath his body- are nothing if not driven by something deeper, darker, more dangerous than simple ardent lust. months you’d been within reach. months he’d been vocal of his desires towards you. days you’d been betrothed to another man.

but the prince never asks, and so you never answer, letting yourselves indulge in the arts of pleasure and pain.

he pulls on your lip, you pull on his hair. he drags his nails down your body, you dig yours into his rear. he drives you deeper up the bed, you drive him deeper between your legs. he rolls his hips into you, you roll your eyes back into your skull.

“this is a dream. you’re a dream,” perhaps your rational thinking has devolved to naught but hedonistic intentions, for you’re almost certain the mighty rogue has something familiar to wonder intertwined with his breathless voice. the dilation of his pupils, eyes more black than targaryen-lilac, is a mystery you ponder over, wondering if it’s driven more by lust or sedative. “and tomorrow i’ll awake to an empty bed and the reality where you tolerate a rat more than me.”

it’s unclear if he speaks literal of the long-tailed rodent, or if it’s simply a new name for the ever-growing list of things he calls your betrothed.

“do you say that to all the whores you fuck?” your words carry a bite, one your own destructive nature hopes will drive him away from you.

“we don’t speak,” he does the opposite, sinking further into you. you become all too aware of the heat returning to your core when he ruts the length of his cock up your folds, coating himself in a thin layer of your lubricant. “sounding like you, they can never achieve it. they can look like you, from the back, at least.”

believing his words to be a lie feels easier than accepting them as truth. the rogue prince has been nothing if not a menace to the streets of silk since the dawn of his sexual maturity, and there is not an inch of you that can fathom him using these vices as a means to quench the desire for you, seeking out your form in faceless, nameless and, apparently, voiceless cunts.

there’s no great lead up to the breaching of your walls, simply another two rolls of his length along your soaked core and a ghost of a kiss against your forehead before the prince is lining himself up and impaling you with his cock.

you’d been warned all about the ache that would come with the breaking of your maidenhead, traumatised at the young ages of four, five, six and onwards of how, someday, your husband would tear you open and leave you a bloodied mess. and, yet, here you lay, a dull ache burning within you, the feel of a pop and the heavy slap of his stones meeting your skin.

“it hurts, i know,” he hushes you when, at last, a pained whimper breaks the surface of your silence, hips stilled and keeping him buried deep in your walls that fight and squeeze and tighten around the intruder. his face, from the little you see of it past the wall of tears building within your eyes, is scrunched up in discomfort, fighting back the instincts that tell him to pull back and fuck himself into you over and over. “but you’re good, and you’re strong, and you can take it. you know you can, just relax.”

you do as your told, far easier than either of you had expected, and find rhythm in his own heavy breathing, matching each inhale and exhale till the soothing of hands over your thighs relaxes the muscles and you manage to retract the nails that dig deep into his back.

the prince moves only once your legs tangle themselves around his waist, spreading you wider and holding him closer.

from there, a symphony ensues, except where normally one would find the melody of a guitar or the blowing of a flute or the beating of a drum, this one is made of skin slapping, mouth kissing, moan singing. the ache builds and builds till it collapses into a pit of delirious pleasure, the kind that opens your eyes as to why it’s so easy for men and women to succumb to the sins of flesh.

“look at you,” his words are rough while his touch is soft, hand gliding over your breasts once more, pinching and pulling at your aching nipples as he puts strength into gazing down at you, intoxicating himself with the way your bodies join at the hip, his cock disappearing into your walls and reemerging coated in your arousal, glimmering beneath the moonlight. “taking me so fucking well. letting me carve out a home for myself in your cunt, huh? gonna let me stay inside you forever?”

he’s manic, and crazed, and spewing out things that you know should make you cringe and roll over in disgust. but you’re just as far gone, mind no longer vacant in your body as you chase that special feeling only the repeated hammering of his tip against your womb can bring.

“let me cum inside, sweetling,” is it more plea or demand? it’s hard to tell, and hard to care, arms circling round the back of his neck and back arching to press chest to chest. the prince ceases his senseless rambling only to lay kisses down your sweat-covered face, neck, chest, each carrying the weight of his desperation to feel you real and breathing beneath him. “stake my claim over this tight little cunt, leave you dripping from how full i make you.”

waves of pleasure crash over you in tandem, unintelligible groans and gasps all that play through the air as hands clamp down and teeth bite skin. your walls spasm around his cock while it twitches within you, both of your peaks painting your bodies in liquid arousal. warmth fills your cunt and trickles out of you, catching on the dark mass of hair that sits above his appendage, the stark white of his cum sickeningly reminding you to the first time you’d seen snow as a child and arousing the same response from you: a desire to taste it.

he collapses down onto you before you get the chance, however, and the exchange of body heat and shallow breaths lulls you both through your states of ecstasy, slipping into a quiet comfort.

the prince moves slowly, as if not to disturb either of you, and shushes you with kisses when you whine at the loss of him from your cunt, softening cock slapping down against your leg. a few moments pass before he’s moving again, this time with you in tow, dragging at the sheets beneath and working them over you both just as you begin to register how cold the chill in the room is. never mind, the dragon keeps you warm against him, limbs tangling as you make a pillow out of his chest.

“my betrothed.” you take the lead this time in breaking the comfortable cloud of silence which had settled itself above your tired bods. the prince merely grunts, disliking the sound of those two words as much as you dislike the taste of them. “i overheard him conversing with an adviser of his.”

“whatever he said, i’ll cut his tongue out and feed him it.” his vulgar threat drags an airy laugh out of you as he mumbles it into the top of your head.

“my maidenhood, that’s what lead him to offering me his hand.” you laugh again, though there is no trace of humour as it devolves into something of a broken, heart-wrenching sob. “gods, i must be so stupid for thinking a man like him could fall in love with me.”

the silence is unnerving, weighs down on your chest with every breath that ebbs and flows between you both. you’re waiting on it, anxiously anticipating the moment laughter breaks out his ribs and shakes his whole body in amusement at your sheer ridiculous expectations, mocking you for giving away your maidenhood in an act so childish as simply not giving your betrothed the satisfaction of taking it.

marriage is politics, you can picture him saying, love is merely a made up tale to entertain children.

daemon never quite has been one for following expectations.

“i could fall in love with you.”

so it is you who winds up laughing, a repeat of that fractured chuckle that dissipates into something more painful and stings at the cracks in your heart.

“you’re not in love with me, daemon,” it feels obvious to say, yet you’re graced with a disagreeing look upon his face. “you’re obsessed with me, there’s a difference.”

“i beg to differ.”

“you see me as nothing but a lady who doesn’t fall at her feet for you, and it excites you. it’s okay, i understand, but i won’t let you delude yourself nor i into believing its love.”

he has no reply to give, not one that could change your mind.

and so there you lay, naked bod pressed to naked bod, sweat and spit and other bodily fluids becoming the glue that hold you together, with limbs entangled and eyes locked. you see peace in his smile and he watches as sleep slowly whisks you away into its warmth.

little does the prince know your eyes will not meet his own again for many years to come.

not days later, as he stands amongst the crowd of folk bearing witness to the exchanging of vows between the tyrell boy and you, nor several years after, as you return to the great hall of the red keep to see the announcement of prince aegon's birth, your own child stood at your side and grasping your hand, the silver-moon upon her head no match to the straw blonde of your husband.

#daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen oneshot #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen x reader #house of the dragon smut

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karahalloway · 4 months

Text

Devil May Care

Fandom: Heaven’s Secret (Book 1: Season 1)

Pairing: Lucifer x F!OC (Devon Hart)

Series: Oh, So Devilish

Chapter summary: Devon sneaks off to track down a lead on her death... But she's not alone.

Word count: 5,100

Warnings: M (swearing, angst, suicidal thoughts, aggro, toxic behaviour, references to death, physical violence)

Chapter theme song:

A/N1: So. This is not what I was supposed to be working on. At all. Not only is this not Intentions, but it’s not even TRR… or Choices, for that matter. However, a couple of weeks ago, @angelasscribbles convinced me to take the plunge with a Romance Club choices game called Heaven’s Secret and I became instantly hooked… especially on Lucifer’s character. I have a type; can’t you tell? 😆

A/N2: This first part of what turned into a two-parter (it just got too long, so I had to split it) focuses on the events that take place at the end of HS S1E5 and the second part focuses on the start of S1E6. Because while I love the character of Lucifer, I felt like that his characterisation missed the mark a bit (especially considering that he is the literal Son of Satan) so, I decided to make… adjustments 😏

A/N3: I appreciate that this is not what most people on my tag list signed up to read, but I have tagged my Permas anyway, in case anyone wants to indulge me. However, in the (highly likely) event that I end up writing more for this fandom, moving forward, I will only tag people who specifically request to be tagged. So if you want in on Part 2, let your preferences be known, or forever hold your peace.

A/N4: By way of context for people who decide to read, but are not familiar with canon for this story, here is some background (which I have also tried to incorporate as much as possible into the fic itself): MC (default name, Vicky Walker, but for various reasons, I decided to create an OC instead) is killed in a car crash. However, instead of ‘simply’ dying, she is offered the choice to become an immortal and join the Angels & Demons Academy (located in Heaven) and train to become either an angel or a demon (your choices in the game actually affect your path — prior to choosing an eventual side, you are referred to as an ‘Unclaimed’). As part of her training, MC is sent down to Earth to complete assignments that require her to influence humans into making various choices… however, MC is also secretly trying to investigate the circumstances of her (highly suspicious) death. Also, for the purposes of this universe, Lucifer is the demon son of Satan and Lilith (not a fallen angel as per Biblical canon). Dino, Sammy and Fencio are true-born angels (don’t ask about the names), Mimi and Adi are true-born demons. Both angels and demons (and Unclaimed) are anthropomorphic and have wings; however, when they go down to Earth, they disguise themselves in human form. Hope that helps! 🤗

Devil May Care

“Ah, there you are…”

Jerking my gaze away from Dino, I spot Sammy’s human form standing a few feet away.

“Sorry,” I say, quickly wiping the remnants of the wetness from my face. “I… I just needed a minute.”

Sammy nods in understanding. “If it’s any consolation, the fact that you care is a good thing. It shows you still have your humanity. No death should be treated lightly, yet most demons… and a fair number of angels have lost sight of that. But it’s a strength. Don’t let Adi or Mimi tell you otherwise.”

“Thanks, Sammy…” I say with a sniffle, forcing myself to stand.

“Any time,” he acknowledges with a lop-sided smirk. “But we should get going.”

“Yes. It is time to return,” confirms Dino, coming to stand beside me.

As if on cue, the air begins to thicken around us, and a familiar crackle of energy raises the hairs on my arms. Glancing up, I see the very fabric of the night sky stretch and strain as an otherworldly wind whips the now-familiar bridge between the dimensions into shape.

Dino steps into the centre of the maelstrom first, lifting into the air as the vortex sucks him back to the ethereal realm.

“See you on the other side,” Sammy winks as he leaps after the other angel.

With a heavy exhale, I shove my hands into the pockets of my biker jacket, and force myself to move towards the epicentre of the storm.

Finding myself back on Earth in the wake of my death hadn’t been easy the first time, and it sure as hell hasn’t gotten any easier the second time either. Because even though everyone at the Academy keeps reminding me that my mortal life is well and truly over, and there is no going back, for whatever inexplicable reason I can’t seem to accept my new-found providence.

And coming back here — to the human realm — just feels like a massive kick in the gut each and every time… Like a kid being taunted with everything they can’t have from the other side of a toy store window. A cruel reminder of what that was wrenched away from me. My friends… My family… Even myself.

The undeniable force of the vortex tugs at my clothes, trying to lift me skywards, but I find myself fighting it.

Maybe because my death had been thrust upon me with such shocking suddenness… giving me no time to prepare, much less come to terms with it before I fell into the world of angels and demons. Maybe because the grief I saw etched into my father’s face has woven itself into the threads of my soul as well, reinforcing the harshness of the truth that we got cheated out of what could have been left of our precious, irretrievable time together. Or maybe it’s because I know that my killer is still out there, living it up despite the crime he committed against me, free from punishment, free from the scythe of justice.

The tip of my finger brushes against the folded letter buried in my pocket.

Since picking it up outside of my house a few days ago — though, to be fair, I have no idea how time converted between Earth and the angelic realm, so for all I know, it could’ve been years since my last visit – I’ve carried the piece of paper with me everywhere. In part because I don’t want anyone finding it and wondering how I managed to get my hands on it in the first place… As given that we aren’t supposed to interact with mortals outside of our given assignments, I am not particularly interested in the chewing out that is no doubt in store for me if someone decides to rat on me. But also, in part because I cannot let what happened to me go… and desperately crave answers.

Digging my heels in on the edge of the swirling whirlpool of energy, I pull the letter out…

…but as if by fate, the square of paper is ripped from my grasp by a particularly vicious gust of wind.

“No…!” I gasp, throwing myself heedlessly after my only lead.

The letter zooms around the circumference of the vortex — like a hapless butterfly riding the edge of a tornado — and begins to track upwards, ever further from my reach…

But just as it’s on the verge of vanishing into the void, it is suddenly snatched out of the air with inhuman speed and precision.

I stumble to stop, mouth agape and arm outstretched like some drunken ballerina as I lay eyes on the dark form on the other side of the vortex.

Crap…

Of all the possible ways this screw-up could’ve gone, this is — hands down — the worst.

As even in human skin… without the horned wings gathered around him like a dark halo, or the pulsing, ethereal tattoos that seem to constantly shift along the visible surface of his skin… there is no mistaking the raw power emanating from the being standing across from me.

Lucifer cocks a lazy brow in my direction as he holds the note up. “Lost something, have we?”

His eyes meets mine, and in spite of the distance separating us, I feel the full heat of the fire that burns in his demonic gaze scorch into me like the blade of a hot knife.

And despite drawing upon every ounce of my willpower to prevent it from happening, I feel an incriminating blush rise up my cheeks.

A slow smile curves at his lips. “I thought so…”

“Give it back!” I snap, my momentary embarrassment morphing instantly into anger… even though I know in the back of my mind this is exactly the reaction he is probably looking to goad me into.

Because I am angry. Angry at myself for being stupid enough to arm someone like Lucifer with such potent ammunition to use against me. Angry with him for the fact that he managed to sneak up on me like this in the first place.

But most of all, my heart is still bleeding for that little girl who died a senseless death mere minutes ago… and the knowledge that I had been complicit in it.

And I cannot keep a latch on the tidal wave of red rising over me. Nor do I really want to.

I have already cried a river on the bench with Dino — commiserating not just for the fate of the girl, but for the fucked up situation I now find myself in as well — and I have no tears left. Just raw, frothing rage at the inherent unjustness of the world, at the flippant and uncaring attitude of my fellow immortals who see humans as mere pawns on their eternal chess board, and my own powerlessness in the face of forces and rules that I don’t yet fully understand, but which I’m being steered to blindly conform to anyway.

And the arrogant demon standing in front of me is just as good a scapegoat for my ire as any.

“Or what?” he taunts, sliding his thumb slowly across the paper… taunting me shamelessly with the missive he now holds in his hand.

Something inside of me snaps and I launch myself at him with a wordless yell.

But the vortex has apparently had enough of being kept on hold by my indecision, and before I’ve made it two steps, I find myself being sucked up to go careening through time and space like a discombobulated pinball.

“Damn it!” I cuss as I’m tugged through the shimmering funnel against my will.

I had one chance to make some much-needed progress on figuring out who killed me and why, and I’ve managed to blow it.

And who knows when I’ll have the opportunity to try again? Or even if I’ll be able to try again…

As knowing Lucifer — the literal Spawn of Satan — he’ll end up throwing me under the bus the moment we get back to the Academy… just for perverse kicks.

“Asshole…” I gripe under my breath as I feel the speed of the vortex slow, indicating that my unplanned trip is about to come to an end.

But as my feet touch down once more, it is not back at the Academy where I find myself. Instead, I’m standing outside of a building that looks very much like a police station… in my hometown.

“Huh…”

Dino had mentioned previously that destinations in the vortex are set by one’s intentions.

Since I had been so focused on the letter — which my father had received from the lead detective assigned to my case — the vortex must’ve thought this is where I had wanted to go.

And I’m not about to look an unexpected gift horse in the mouth.

Knowing that I didn’t have a lot of time before my classmates — and Fencio! — notice my absence back in the angelic realm, I hurry across the street.

Taking the steps two at a time, I shove myself through the revolving door and step into the station. Luckily, I have the contents of the letter memorised, given that I no longer have it in my possession, so I’m hoping that I’ll be able to blag my way through this with some semblance of grace.

The receptionist manning the counter looks up at my arrival. “Can I help you?”

“Erm… Yes,” I confirm, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear as I step forward. “I’m looking for DC Lawton. He was heading up the Hart case…?”

I cross my fingers behind my back, hoping against hope that it’s only been mere weeks and not decades since my death, and the police are still investigating.

The receptionist takes a moment to consult her computer. “Yes. He should still be in.”

A relieved breath bursts out of me. Another break!

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Not exactly…” I admit. “But… I do have some information relating to the case that he needs to hear.”

The woman behind the desk studies me for a long moment, no doubt wondering what a petite Korean girl wearing pink pigtails and spiked leather could possibly have to contribute to a homicide investigation… given that that is the mortal skin I am currently masquerading around in.

But she nevertheless seems to take me at my word. “Down the hall, second door on the left.”

“Thank you!” I blurt, already turning away.

Speedwalking past the desk and down the corridor, I locate the correct door and push down on the handle without knocking.

The lone man occupying the room barely glances up from his stack of papers at the sound of my arrival. “Yeah?”

“DC Lawton?” I ask, stepping into the room.

“That’s what it says on the name plaque,” he grunts, indicating the front of his desk.

“Great!” I exclaim, moving up to him. “I…”

I trail off, realising that I haven’t actually planned out what I was going to say when I got here. As I can’t exactly reveal that I am the dead victim from one of his case files, come to demand answers about the circumstances of the car crash that killed her.

The detective raises his head, waiting for a response..

I take a deep breath. “I hear you’re the lead investigator on the Hart case.”

He nods. “That’s right. And you are?”

“An interested party,” I admit. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

His brows furrow, no doubt in response to the same train of thought that chugged down the tracks of the receptionist’s mind earlier. “What kind of interested party?”

Shit…

I’m not sure exactly how I had expected this conversation to go, but it definitely wasn’t like this.

But then I remember that I’m not a mere human anymore…

And I’m not willing to leave empty-handed.

Ditching any rational approach, I scrunch my face up in pretend grief as I flop dramatically into the chair at the side of the detective’s desk. “I didn’t want to say anything before because I didn’t want anyone to know… especially my parents… but I can’t keep it in anymore and I need to tell someone!”

DC Lawton startles slightly at my unexpected and borderline theatrical flip of composure. “Keep what in anymore?”

I slap an aggrieved hand onto his. “That Devon and I were in a relationship!”

The detective’s eyes widen in shock, and I use his momentary surprise to lock my gaze with his, just like we practiced back at the Academy.

The physical contact, combined with the suddenly unrestricted access to the window of his soul, allows me to breach the energetic wall encasing his body, and dive right into the hidden recesses of his mind.

Yes! It worked!

But I force myself to curtail my celebration, knowing that I need to focus all my attention on maintaining the delicate connection with the man sitting in front of me.

“You must help me, Detective,” I urge, tightening my hold on his hand.

DC Lawton looks somewhat dazed — like he’s been whacked over the back of the head — but at the sound of my voice, his pupils dilate eagerly. “How can I help?”

“The girl in the Hart case that you’re investigating… she was run off the road. Do you know by who?”

“No,” he intones, his voice slightly groggy. “The vehicle was a rental. A black minivan. I haven’t had a chance to talk to the rental company yet…”

“Which rental company?” I press.

“Global Drive,” he says. “The license plate is NYK 357.”

“Can you write that all down for me?”

He lifts his pen up with a nod to scribble onto a Post-It. “Your hand is so warm…”

“Thanks,” I say, snatching the note from him and breaking off the contact in the process.

He blinks up at me rapidly. “Any time…?”

Jumping up from the chair, I turn to dash out of the room…

…and nearly trip over my own feet when I come face to face with the glowering form leaning against the door jamb.

“What th—?”

Lucifer’s lips curl back to reveal teeth. “I should have you racked in the Pits.”

An involuntary shiver runs down my spine at his words. Not because of the sinister nature of the threat — I’ve been to Hell, and it certainly is no picnic! — but because I can see from the tight set of his jaw that he is actively considering carrying it out.

I force myself to meet his burning gaze head-on. “Well, unfortunately for you, I didn’t end up in Hell when I died. So, you don’t get to make that call.”

“No,” he growls back. “But your flagrant disregard for the rules makes you a liability, and I refuse to take the fall for you.”

“Well, maybe you should’ve thought of that before you decided to follow me,” I hit back, bumping him with my shoulder as I shove past him on my way out of the room.

His hand shoots out to latch around my arm with a vice-like grip, and suddenly I find myself nose-to-nose with him.

“I didn’t follow you,” he hisses into my face, his coal-black irises alight with the very fires of Hell. “The vortex brought me here because you can’t keep hold of your own fucking trash.”

“It’s not trash!” I spit back. “It’s—“

“Was it worth it?”

The question — and the sudden change in his tone — catches me off guard.

I blink in confusion, wondering if I maybe misheard him. But while his piercing gaze is still locked onto me with the same degree of ferociousness as a moment ago, behind the raging inferno of irritation glimmers a genuine spark of curiosity.

“Maybe,” I concede tightly, trying to get a read on him.

As demons, I’ve learnt, are inherent wildcards. Unpredictable at the best of times, and downright diabolical at the worst. Which means their whims and whiles can change at the drop of a hat, and it is dangerous to get caught in a compromising position with them.

Which — unfortunately — is exactly where I have managed to find myself with Lucifer. Trapped in a corner, with him holding all the trumps. So, I don’t want to admit any more than I strictly have to.

He rakes his hot gaze over me one more time — as if trying to catch me out in a lie — before pulling back slightly.

“Hmm… Not a complete waste of wings then…”

I wrench my arm from his grasp. “Fuck you.”

I swear I hear a snort of amusement escape him as I stomp away… But I resist the urge to sucker punch him. He is not worth it, and I have better things to do with my limited time on Earth anyway.

Glancing down at the Post-It in my hand, I can see that DC Lawton has been kind enough to scrawl down the address of the rental centre… and that it is only a few blocks away.

Which is a blessing, given that I don’t have any money on me with which to hail a cab or jump on a bus, and our lessons at the Academy have yet to cover how to magically hotwire a car.

So, walking it is. At least the physical exertion will give me a chance to blow off some steam.

Shoving the note into my pocket, I push through the revolving doors of the station, and back out onto the street. Pausing for a second to get my bearings – it’s been a while since I last frequented this part of town, having spent the preceding four years of my mortal life off at college – I quickly rake through my mental map of the neighbourhood before setting off to the right.

Except, I don’t even make it to the end of the block before I feel a tell-tale prick in the back of my neck. Glancing over my shoulder, my stomach drops as I catch sight of Lucifer a few yards behind me.

Gritting my teeth, I pick up my pace, hoping that it’s merely an unfortunate coincidence that he happens to be going in the same direction as me.

But it seems that I am in no such luck, as he’s still tailing me two blocks later, like an annoying black fly that I cannot seem to shake, no matter how hard I try.

With the result that by the time I get to the next crosswalk, my cool has evaporated completely, and instead of crossing the road in front of me, I end up rounding on him like a rabid pitbull.

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite!”

My outburst seems to catch him off-guard. But whatever jump I may have managed to get on him is fleeting at best, and in the next instant, he’s up in my face again, teeth bared and hackles raised. “Watch your tongue, Unclaimed. Before I rip it out of your mouth.”

“Oh, the truth hurts, does it?” I snip up at him.

“You don’t know the meaning of pain,” he grits, his hand snapping around the base of my throat.

My eyes narrow. “I know more than you think.”

“No. You don’t.” The flames in his eyes lick over me contemptuously. “And your arrogance will get you killed. Permanently.”

“Bet you’d love to be the one to do it, too,” I goad with a humourless smile.

I know I’m playing with hellfire. But I don’t care. I didn’t ask for this life, and I’m still not convinced I want it. So, if Lucifer is willing to put me out of my misery, then so be it. Being who he is, I’m sure he has the means… and I’ve just handed him the opportunity on a silver platter.

The Prince of Darkness stares at me for what feels like an age, his hand wrapped around my throat, face a mere breath from mine, his gaze simmering as if trying to read my very soul.

“Unlike you, angel, I’m not that stupid,” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. His hand drops from my neck as he steps abruptly past me.

“Then why are you still here?” I demand, whirling around after him.

He stops a few feet away, shoulders tense. But when he looks back at me, rather than anger or annoyance, it’s that devilish grin playing at his lips again. “Maybe I’m just enjoying the show.”

“Eugh!” I grit, throwing my hands up in the air as I plow past him.

Conceited, egotistical, patronising bastard! Why can’t he fall back into the Seventh Circle of Hell, where he fucking—

I’m so incessed that I end up storming right by the rental centre… and have to retrace my steps from the other end of the block to correct my mistake.

So, by the time I arrive back at the correct entranceway, my mood is even more foul than when I left the police station.

“Save it,” I spit as I reach the still-smirking form of Lucifer, leaning against the metal fence post of the lot.

His brow arches. “Did you hear me—?”

I flip him off in no uncertain terms as I stride past without a backwards glance.

He wants to stick around? Fine. But that doesn’t mean I need to be nice to him. Hell will have to freeze over first.

Arriving at the first row of parked cars, I pull the Post-It out from my pocket and begin scanning the plates, looking for the black van.

“Good afternoon, miss. Can I help you find anything in particular?”

Looking up, I see a suited man with a combover and a name tag looking at me expectantly. The rental rep, by the looks of him.

“Yes, actually,” I affirm. “I’m looking for a black minivan.”

“You have come to the right place,” he tells me with an eager smile as he starts to lead me to the other side of the lot. “Global Drive stocks the largest selection of rental vans available for hire in the area, and we’re happy to accommodate both long- and short-term requirements. Are you moving, by any chance?”

“Huh?” I’d been too busy trying to match the van plates to the number on the Post-It that I totally missed the question.

The rep’s smile falters slightly. “Since your interest is in a minivan, am I correct to assume that y—?”

“No.”

Both mine and the rep’s gaze snap around to land on the hulking presence of Lucifer, who has managed to slither up behind us without either of us noticing.

“We’re not planning on renting it,” he adds, with what I can only deduce is his interpretation of an angelic smile.

My stomach drops. Oh, no…

The rep frowns. “Then why—?”

“Because this lovely young lady is of the belief that she may have left a rather intimate item in one of your vans following a recent excursion of ours. And she’s desperate to retrieve it.”

“Oh, well of course!" agrees the rep. “We pride ourselves on—"

“It’s lacy… And expensive…” Lucifer clarifies with a sly look. “And probably lodged between the—”

“The point is!” I interject loudly, my cheeks burning with mortification despite the fact that the entire story is a shameless lie. “We would like to take a look in the van. The plate number was NYK 357.”

The demeanour of the rep suddenly shifts. “Umm… Are you certain?”

“Yes,” I say, laying a hand on his arm to try and sway him like I did the detective. “Very—”

The rep snatches his arm away. “I’m going to need to see some ID. I cannot allow access to the vehicles without verifying that—”

I reach towards him again. “Surely that’s not necessary… We just want to take a quick peek, and—”

“He’s going to bolt…” breathes Lucifer in my ear.

I flick my head away irately. “Shut—”

But the rep has already turned tail and fled.

“Damn it!” I grit.

“Told you,” Lucifer smirks down at me.

I give him an annoyed shove. “He only did that because of you! If you hadn’t stuck your nose in it, I would’ve—”

“I did nothing,” he counters tersely, the coals of his eyes flaring in warning. “Your attempt to influence him was doomed from the start. But you were too obstinate to notice.”

“Obstinate!” I cry. “You were breathing in my ear!”

“And did you like it?” he purrs, suddenly all up in my space again as he flips the tables on me with diabolical speed.

“No,” I snort, turning pointedly away.

Asshole…

He deliberately sabotaged my attempt to establish a connection with the rental rep. Whether for his own perverse enjoyment — like the Devil temping Eve in the Garden — or whether for some more sinister reason, it doesn’t matter. The end result is the same. And I have no clue how I’m going to be able to salvage this rapidly snowballing clusterfuck, given that I am already working on borrowed time.

But I know I have to try. I’ve somehow managed to make it this far, in spite of the successive obstacles Lucifer’s thrown in my way, and I refuse to give that bastard the satisfaction of believing that I’m going to let him win whatever one-sided game he’s playing.

“He is gay.”

I stumble to a stop. “Say what?”

Lucifer is standing in front of me, blocking the way to the door of the rental centre. “The rental rep. He is gay. That is why your feeble attempts to influence him didn’t work.”

“Yeah… Right…” I snap, trying to push past him. I’m not falling for whatever kind of trick this is supposed to be.

He grabs my arm. “Check that attitude before I check it for you, Unclaimed. Because you’re not going to like my methods…”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” I hit back. “Because based on what I’ve seen of your ‘methods’, they are mediocre at best.”

His eyes flash in fury. “You’ve seen nothing, angel…”

“I’m not an angel,” I deride, wrenching my arm from his grasp.

He scoffs. “Well, you’re certainly no demon. The way you’re floundering around like—”

I catch sight of something through the window. “Oh, no…”

Lucifer jerks his gaze over his shoulder…

…and before I can blink, he’s vanished into the rental centre, the glass door flapping wildly in his wake.

Catching the handle on the out-swing, I dash after him as fast as my stiletto boots can carry me… and an involuntary gasp escapes me as I lay eyes on the scene in front of me.

The rental rep is pressed up against the wall, his feet dangling a good foot off the ground as Lucifer holds him suspended with the hand locked around his neck. The phone that I’d spotted the rep frantically trying to dial a moment ago lies shattered on the floor.

“Please…” begs the man, clawing desperately at the fingers that are squashing his trachea. “I—“

“Shut up,” growls Lucifer, shoving the rep higher. “You have exactly two seconds to tell us everything we need to know before I rip your throat out. And if you even think about lying… Well, you don’t even want to go there…”

The rep blanches visibly. “Anything! I’ll… I’ll tell you anything! Please, just—“

“Ask him,” Lucifer barks without even a glance in my direction.

I take a shaky step forward. “We… We’re looking for the driver who rented the black van. License plate—”

“I… I know…” croaks the rep, his face starting to redden from the lack of oxygen. “I worked the shift and… and remember him. He never bought the van back…”

My throat tightens painfully. Because he rammed me off the road…

“Who was he?” demands Lucifer.

“Not… local,” the man rasps, struggling for breath. “Gave a hotel as an address… Hotel… Hotel Aphrodite. And his name… His name sounded strange… almost French. But he didn’t speak—”

“To Hell with all that,” comes the short-tempered command. “Give us the fucking name.”

“Am-Amidi Laurent!”

Lucifer drops the rep like a sack of trash. “You got that?”

“Yeah…” I confirm tightly, watching the man wheeze on the floor.

“Good,” he grits. “Let’s go.”

Without giving me a say in the matter, he grabs my wrist to haul me out the door.

I stumble after him like a witless marionette, trying to process what I just witnessed.

Lucifer… Willing to kill… For me…?

The concept simply does not compute.

“Happy now?”

The sound of Lucifer’s voice wrenches me from the whirlpool of my thoughts…

…and looking up, I find that we’re back out on the street, just around the corner from the rental centre.

“I…” I glance back in the direction of Global Drive with a lump in my throat. “Why did you do that?”

“To save time,” he replies dispassionately. “And get the truth out of him.”

“Yeah… But…” A shiver courses through me at the ease with which he’d immobilised the rep… The ease with which he’d threatened him. “Why?”

Lucifer lets out an exasperated exhale. “Hell’s bells, you Unclaimed are dense sometimes… Because that’s what you wanted.”

I gape at him, stupefied. This must be some kind of fever dream…

“Don’t I get a thank you?”

The simplicity of his question knocks me off kilter completely.

My eyes lift to his almost on their own volition, and I find him gazing down at me silently, intently… like a cat waiting to see in which direction the mouse will jump.

Except there is no malice or mockery in his gaze. Just plain old curiosity once again.

And because my tongue has become stuck in my throat, and after everything that’s just happened, my mind is a non-functioning mess, I do the stupidest thing imaginable…

…and reach up to kiss him on the cheek.

He stiffens — probably just as shocked by what’s happening as I would be if I could think coherently right now. But for whatever reason, he doesn’t laugh or pull away. He simply stands, still as a statue, hardly even drawing breath.

I have no idea how long we stay there, frozen in time with my lips pressed against his jaw — the heat of his skin burning me even through the dampener of his mortal guise — before we finally break apart.

I turn quickly away, face flushed and heart hammering, not being able to bring myself to look him in the eye for fear of what I might find there.

Oh, Christ… What the hell did I just do?

The story continues in Devil You Know

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